


all that's left is the ghost of you

by whoistorule



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Young Avengers
Genre: Age Difference, Exhibitionism, F/M, Light Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2015496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoistorule/pseuds/whoistorule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>3000 miles wasn’t enough to forget.  So she came back.  Back to the clouds of cigarette smoke that clung to the cement like early morning fog, and the sticky squelch of dried beer beneath her heels, and that was just the hallways.  The stench coming out of his apartment was worse even than the stairwell, worse than the elevator bank, worse than the alley.  Oh, Lucky was happy, his pink tongue lapping at the floor for stray pepperoni or melted cheese, but all Kate felt was sick.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	all that's left is the ghost of you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionlannister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionlannister/gifts).



> Kate/Barney for Austin's birthday! I think I started this fic in October literally.... 9 months ago? O well. Yes this ship is wrong. So so wrong. So wrong that it's right? Well, I think it is at least. HAPPY 21ST EMILY!!!!!!!!

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.  So California didn’t work out the way she’d hoped.  Kate didn’t give up, but just because the crossed the country didn’t mean she was on another _planet_.  She knew what was happening in New York.  The smoke and ash of Clint Barton’s self-perpetuating wreckage of a life wafted as far west as the Pacific, and Kate realized she didn’t know how to not care.

3000 miles wasn’t enough to forget.  So she came back.  Back to the clouds of cigarette smoke that clung to the cement like early morning fog, and the sticky squelch of dried beer beneath her heels, and that was just the hallways.  The stench coming out of his apartment was worse even than the stairwell, worse than the elevator bank, worse than the alley.  Oh, Lucky was happy, his pink tongue lapping at the floor for stray pepperoni or melted cheese, but all Kate felt was sick.

Her knuckles rapped against the peeling paint of his door once, twice, no response.  “Clint Barton open the damn door!  I swear to--”

The door swung open with it’s usual creak, but the man it revealed was _not_ Clint Barton.

“Barney.”

“What do you want, sidekick?  Clint’s sleeping.”

“Sleeping or drunk, again?”

“What does it matter.  Go away.”

Not one to take orders from anyone, let alone a washed up middle age ex-archer with not a cent to his name, Kate shoved the door open, decidedly not caring as it crushed his foot.

The apartment was a wreck, the floor strewn with wrappers and beer bottles like autumn leaves and branches in need of a good raking, and here she was, to clean up the mess Clint Barton left behind.  Or maybe the mess his brother left.

“I’m gone for 10 seconds and _you_ let his life fall into shambles.  What kind of older brother are you?  Letting him live like this?”

“That’s right, I’m his brother, he’s _my_ problem.  So you need to get out.”

She had absolutely no intention of following that command, or any other he gave her.  Barney Barton towered over Kate, his shoulders wide as Clint’s, his red hair tousled nearly the same way Clint’s always was, that artful sort of ‘I’ve spent the last 10 hours in bed with someone’ look that hairdressers spent hours trying to replicate, but she could ignore all that.  She could ignore the fact that he was nearly a foot taller than her, that despite her own muscular build, he had the superior force (and criminal background) to do _quite_ a bit of damage to her more petite frame, that for all that he resembled his brother, the man in front of her was in no way Clint Barton, and that she did.  Stepping towards him, Kate stabbed a pointed finger at his chest.

“You get out!  You’re nothing but a washed up excon looking to mooch off your better brother.  Why are you even _here?_ You’re nothing but trouble for Clint.”

Rather than being intimidated, which is what Kate was going for, Barney Barton did the most infuriating thing a man could do: he _laughed_.  Laughed at her! "Why does he hang around the likes of a rich bitch like you, anyway?" he asked between his chuckles, and Kate narrowed her eyes, willing herself not to blush.  She was Kate Bishop.  She led the Young Avengers when she was only 16.  She faced down far worse things than Clint Barton’s stupid brother.  She would _not_ look weak.

"Hey!"

"No offense, but the Clint I once knew would be helping me steal from your daddy, not babysitting you.."

"He doesn’t- He’s not!” Exasperation huffed from her lips like white breath in a frost.  “Well he's changed, Barton.  Obviously you haven't."

"I like it when you call me Barton, you call Clint that?"

"Shut up."

“Aww, Katie, did I hurt your feelings?”

“No.  And don’t call me that.  And shut up.”

"What are you anyway? His sidekick?"

"No, I'm Hawkeye."

"Isn't he Hawkeye?"

"He was, then he died, so I was Hawkeye."

"Doesn't look very dead to me."

"Well, he got better!”  How dumb _was_ Clint Barton’s hick brother, anyway?  Kate jabbed her finger against his chest again, enunciating her thoughts with the scrape of her nail against his bare flesh, which was altogether too exposed beneath his white tank top.  “He's Hawkeye.  I'm also Hawkeye.  We're both Hawkeye."

"So, not a sidekick then?  Well what is it? You're not sleeping with him, are you?"

"What?! No! I wouldn't! Anyway… he told me when we started... whatever this is that he's working with me _because_ I he doesn’t want to sleep with me... though I don't know why I'm telling you that."

"Oh I do.  It's that old Barton charm."

"Shut up."

"See? Charmed by me already."  It was cruel, the way his smile looked so much like Clint’s, the way his voice resonated, so familiar, and yet different.  It was deeper.  Oh the Barton playfulness was there, the lack of care, but Kate wouldn’t be Hawkeye if she couldn’t hear the life of cigarettes that choked his laugh; the same scars that made Clint’s lack of care often cruel cut at Barney Barton’s words.

"I'm not! Anyway, I don't trust you. And I don't think you're good for Clint."

"And you are? You left him!"

"He made me! You don't know-- why am I explaining myself to you! You're a criminal!"

"Ex-criminal."

"Why should I believe you've reformed?  Once a criminal-"

"Always a criminal? Really? And what about Clint.  He was a criminal.  A thief.  He even shot people."

"You're twisting my words.  It's completely different."

"Why?"

"Because you're not-"

"Not what?"

"Not Clint.  You may want to be, but you aren't.  He's good.  And you're-"

It was as if the air around her tightened, and Kate couldn't tell why.  She was suddenly aware of how close she was to Barney, and the way she could feel his heart beat faintly under the pad of the fingertip she had pressed against his bare chest.

"I'm what?"

"You're--"

Before she could answer, before she could even think to, Barney's mouth was on hers.  Dimly, Kate knew this was a bad idea, but her body had a mind of its own, her arms reaching to wrap their war around his neck as he kissed her.  It was a battle again, though the things his tongue were doing now were _much_ more inventive than they had been when he was merely speaking. When Barney's bow-toned arms reached to lift Kate on to the countertop, her body responded, her own muscular legs wrapping around his torso.

Kate’s head knocked against the wood veneer of the cabinets, a dull throbbing that barely registered behind the pulse of his kiss.  It was s wrong, of course it was s wrong, but that didn't make it not _good_.  It was the first time in weeks, since Grills was shot, or maybe even before, that Kate remembered feeling anything at all.   And now she could feel everything, from the pinch of the corner of the counter into her thigh, to the drag of Barney Barton’s teeth against her lips. There was a roughness in the way he grabbed her, his hands big and bruising at the small of her back, but she didn't care.  Kate matched him with a fierceness of her own, her pale fingers pulling at his hair, drawing him closer.  She couldn't close her eyes, couldn't pretend this was anything other than what it was, but Kate couldn't stop herself either, not when her heart was racing and her body squirming pleasantly between Barney’s thick arms.

A crash broke the spell, Clint’s purple “H” mug shattering from the shove of Kate’s purple-clad ass against the countertop, spilling ceramic shards across the room.

"Shit!" Kate pushed Barney away, only barely aware of the dirty blood trickling down her leg, courtesy of the shattered mug.  His back hit the wall beside them with a thump as Kate propelled herself off the countertop.  "What are you _doing_? Get off me!"

"What? You were enjoying it a second ago."

"And what would you have done if Clint walked in?"

"You said you weren't sleeping with him."

"I'm _not_! But he still wouldn't have liked it.  This is his apartment, Barney, not yours, not mine.  We can't.  It's… it’s not right!”

"Then why did you kiss me back?"

"I didn't.”  Kate pulled the door open. “End of story.  This never happened."

The door shut behind her with a slam, and Kate gasped, her body shaking with adrenaline.  It was a mistake.  A stupid fucking mistake.  One that never happened, and _definitely_ would never be repeated.

_Stupid, Hawkeye, stupid._

\---

A Barton boy was curled against the side of the building, his purple hoodie clad self curled over a sputtering flame, the rain drenching the fabric.  A few steps closer revealed it was Barney, and Kate didn’t know whether or not to be relieved.

"Eurgh,” she said, water dripping off her clear bubble umbrella, enclosing her in a ring of dryness, “That reeks."

No doubt damp to the bone, Barney shrugged, "I figured Clint's got enough bad habits without adding mine to the pile. What are you doing here?"

"Dropping off... stuff..." Kate lifted the plastic shopping bag on her wrist vaguely.

"Anyone ever tell you you're a terrible liar?"

"I'm an excellent liar, actually."

"You know you don't have to look after him."

Shaking her head, she frowned at Barney.  " _Someone_ does."

"Girlie, I've been looking after my brother since longer than you've been alive."

"Yeah and look at the job you've done."

Something fleeting passed across his face, was it guilt?  Kate couldn’t be sure, for as soon as she thought she saw it, it was gone, replaced by that trademark Barton half smile.  “He’s alive, ain’t he?”

“Barely.”  Tapping her toes against the wet pavement, Kate frowned. “Well, come on then Barton, inside.  Can’t leave you out here to drown like a wet rat.”

Dropping his lit taper with a sizzle into the puddle beneath his feet, he gestured to Kate.  “After you, Katie.”

“I told you, don’t call me that.”

\---

Perhaps it should have been obvious that a _boiler_ room would be hot, but somehow Kate hadn’t expected _quite_ this level of heat.  Her normally salon blown out hair was stuck to her forehead and the back of her neck, her whole body dripping with sweat and with the ache of using new muscles, or rather using old muscles in new ways.

“Effing Barton buys an effing building and gets himself too effing drunk to fix the effing boiler,” the crank of a wrench punctuated every half-baked curse as Kate tightened the lever that she _hoped_ would make the hot water stop sputtering.

Kate had been sweat-drenched even before she started fixing this stupid effing boiler, and had just wanted a hot shower after her workout, and Clint’s place was closer to her running route.  Well, okay, maybe she moved her regular route off-burough just for one mess of an archer, but still.  She’d turned on the water only to be met with something completely and utterly non-functional.  And now here she was.  Fixing a boiler.  In Bed-Stuy.  While her superhero partner slept off yet another bender on his Ikea couch.

 _There_. One last twist and Kate was convinced she had it.  That had been the loose knobby thing after all, and she'd screwed it back in.  Hands matted with swear and grime, Kate brushed them together and took a step back to admire her handwork.  A muffled laugh from behind her shook her from her confidence and she whirred around, avenger-quick reflexes spurring into motion.

"You," Kate snarled, soot-streaked fists leaving prints on her white camisole as they hit her hips.  "What are you doing here?"

"Well, the water in the building has been off for a good half hour so I thought I'd see why."

"What? How!  I fixed--"

"You fixed it?" Barney Barton laughed, scratching his head idly.  In the dim of the boiler room, it was easy to forget his hair was red, not dirty blonde, easy to pretend his crooked smile belonged to another, more esteemed member of the Barton clan.  "Girlie I'd bet my shirt you've never even been in a boiler room before, let alone know how to fix one."

"And you do?"

"I grew up poor." With a few easy strides, Barney passed her by, picking up her discarded wrench.  "Joined the circus."  He barely had to look before he located the source of the problem. "I've been fixing things my whole life."  Grunts permeated his words as Barney maneuvered the tool around the machine, tightening and unscrewing things at will.  "I've been a handy man and a homeless man.  I know lots about warm places to spend the night."

Abashed, Kate was glad the darkness hid her blush. She didn't like Barney Barton any more now than she had a week before, he was brash and rude and undoubtedly bad for Clint, but she hadn't really thought of him as... well... as a person.  At least not one with a past of his own, separate from being the man who tried to kill Clint on numerous occasions and now was enjoying the illustrious position of sleeping on Clint's creaking couch.

"There.  That should work."

"How do you know that?" Kate challenged, hands still firmly on her hips, "you haven't even tried it!"

"Trust me, girlie, I know."

"Yeah, well, you owe me your shirt."

"What?"

Kate smiled, folding her arms across her chest. "You said you bet your shirt I haven't been in a boiler room before, but I have."

"Oh yeah? When?" Barney challenged right back, a familiar glint in his eye.

"When Clint first bought the building. I was looking for the storage room, and I ended up here, but it still counts."

"This building has a storage room?"

"That is so not the point of the story. Now, Barton, my trophy, if you please."

His hands tugged at the bottom of that dirty rubbed tank top he always seemed to be wearing with a wary smile. "You sure?"

Slowly, Kate nodded as he slipped it over his head.

Someone more poetic than Kate might have called the flickering yellow of the aging lightbulb amber, might have marveled at the way Barney's sweat streaked skin drank it in, but all Kate saw was wiry muscle spiderwebbed in white scar tissue, lines that surely told stories, of his past, of Clint, of after.  Without meaning to, Kate found herself reaching out to trace them, her fingers hovered a hair's breadth from his bare chest.

Barney's fingers closing around her wrist break the spell, his expression teasing. "Hey now, girlie, you can look but you can't touch."

"That's not the message I got from you the other night," Kate flexed her wrist, pulling it free.

"Careful there, Katie, you're playing a dangerous game now."

Fingers splayed, Kate stepped forward and gave Barney a light shove. "I'm not playing anything. And I thought I told you not to call me that."

Eyes wide, Barney stumbled back, his bare back scraping against the exposed brick wall.  “Katie Kate Kate Kate Kate,” he teased, and Kate scowled.

“Close your eyes.”  She commanded, and to her utter surprise, he did, his smirk painted on that same Barton face she knew so well.  The tear of the duct tape filled the room, one strip, and then another, until she had enough to wrap around his wrists, tying him to the boiler room pipes, leaving enough room so that their heat would not burn.

“Whatcha doing, Katie?” he asked, eyes closed still.

“You’re a bad guy, Barton, and bad guys get tied up.”

“And what happens next?”  Blinking, he opened his eyes, staring at her with that ridiculous Barton patented crooked grin.  She was going to tie him up there, she was going to leave him there, but something about the way he’s staring at her shook something loose inside her, and before Kate knew what she was doing, she was crossing the distance between them, her mouth opening against his, kissing the slant from his smile with bared teeth.

She could hear the threads of tape straining against the bars as he leaned into the kiss, could feel the phantom stretch of the limbs she knew he longed to wrap around her.  Adrenaline coursed through her body as she kissed him.  It was _wrong_ of course it was wrong, but it was hard to remember that when his open mouth beckoned her towards him, his tongue curling around her own, his bare chest begging to be touched.

Softly, Kate kissed the line of his shoulder, her teeth scraping lightly against his skin, her fingers splayed open on his chest.  She could feel him growing hard against her leg, harder as she tucked her hand inside his waistband and wrapped her fingers around his cock, her thumb running every so gently down the length of it until his groans matched those of the boiler for pitch and heat.

That’s when she pulled away, eyes bright with mischief.

“Katie, Katie no…” he whined, but all she did was turn her back, collecting her things.  “Katie you can’t leave me like this.”

“What did I tell you about calling me Katie?”

“Kate, Kate Bishop, Hawkeye, come _on_.”

Tying her hair up in a ponytail, Kate offered Barney Barton a wink.  “You’ll figure something out, I know you’re the resourceful type.  You’re a Barton, after all.”  Turning towards the door, she opened it and then turned back to Barney.  “Thanks for fixing the boiler.  I’m sure Clint will really appreciate it.  Though I’d figure out a way to get out of here first, otherwise you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

\--

"A letter? A fricken letter? You cheat on me with some redheaded mobster bimbo and you write me a fricken _letter?_ "

That was the unmistakably angry dulcet tones of the spider woman.  The mumbled pathetic replies would be those of Kate's fellow Hawkeye.

"Romantic? Romantic would have been valuing me enough to NOT put your prick into the nearest slut.  I supposed I should just be grateful you didn't sleep with Natasha"

More mumbling again, even more halfhearted than the last.

"Well obviously she wouldn't! But you would!"

The sounds of the Avenger-argument hummed through the hallway. So absorbed was she in her conspicuous effort to not eavesdrop she missed the Barton-sized lump curled up by Clint's door. A patched denim leg tipped her forward, sending Kate sprawling to the floor, complete with a complement of mocking laughter.

"I thought Hawkeyes were supposed to be coordinated."

"Barney what are you _doing_ lurking on the ground?  And is that--- are you drinking _whiskey_ out of a _paper bag_?"

"Didn't want to disturb the fireworks, don't have anywhere else to go."

Kate rolled her eyes.  For a grown man, Barney Barton was such a child.  Picking herself up, she shot him her most withering Upper East Side Princess glare.  "Come _on_ Barton, get out of the hallway.  That fight's not even close to over and this," Kate gestured at the hallway tableau, “is pathetic.  We're getting real alcohol.  The kind that's served in a glass, not a-- is that a _plastic_ bottle?"

"Aren't you like twelve?  How do you expect to get served alcohol?"

"Funny.  I've had a fake since before _you_ came back from the dead.  Now come on, before the woman behind that door remembers her spidey-senses and catches us out here."

\---

It wasn't a particularly nice bar, there was lewd graffiti in the bathroom, and three pinball machines, which was frankly just excessive, and the vodka selection left much to be desired, but her fourth vodka-cran was considerably light on the cran thanks to a considerable display of cleavage, and Barney Barton wasn't the _most_ unpleasant company in the world.  At least, he was better than no one.

"So are you in love with my brother?"

It took all the effort Kate had not to cough up her drink.

“ _What_?"

"Don't look at me like that.  I mean, you show up at his place all the time when I hear you have some crazy fancy mansion in Manhattan and you made that pathetic attempt to fix his boiler--" 

"Hey!"

"And don't tell me you run near here because I've been around the block a few times Katie, I know."

"I’ve already told you not to call me Katie."

"My baby bro calls you Katie.  Talks about you all the fucking time, too."

"So what? Are you jealous?"

Now it was Barney's turn to nearly spit up his drink, Kate could see the muscles in his neck convulse as she spoke and bit down a smile.  "You are!" Triumphant, she drained her drink.  "Awww, is the big archer man jealous that his brother likes me better than him?"

Alcohol had loosened her limbs; Kate could feel the vodka in her veins, her alert eyes hooded, her smile wider than it ought to be.

"Shut up."

"Maybe if you hadn't tried to kill him he'd like you more."

"I'm warning you--"

"What? What are you going to do?  We're in public, Barton. And the bartender has his eye on me.  Anyway, I could take you with one hand tied behind my back."

Perhaps the last bit wasn't strictly true.  What Kate had on Barney in youth and training, he more than made up for in size and brawn, but she knew how to use a man's momentum against him, and despite the alcohol coursing through her body, she had miles on him in terms of pure sobriety.

What Kate didn't expect was the heavy weight of Barney's hand on her thigh, bringing an accidental gasp of desire from her laugh-parted lips.

"Is he watching us now?"

While the rational part of Kate's brain had not been fully present since her second drink, it disappeared completely the moment Barney Barton's hand met the inseam of her black dress.

Slowly, Kate nodded, her hand clenching tightly around her icy, tragically empty glass. "Good."

Barney's hand slipped higher and Kate tensed as it met the black lace at the apex of her thighs.

"Tell me to stop," Barney half taunted but he knew she wouldn't.  It had not been Barney Barton who tied her down in the laundry room, no. She had been the aggressor then, ruined his shirt too when the streaks of sweat married the rust and dirt off the filthy floor.

Icy condensation had chilled his fingertips but they warmed quickly as he shifted the fabric of her thong.  The brush of Barney's thumb against her clit had Kate biting her lip hard enough to bruise.

"Here," Barney shoved his half drunk jack and coke at Kate.  Whiskey was never her drink, let alone something as pedestrian as Jack Daniels, but Kate gulped it healthily nonetheless, grateful for something to do with her mouth other than groan.

Sinking into the red vinyl, Kate let her legs slide apart, the fabric of her skirt riding up to give Barney better access.  Like any true fighter, he took advantage of the opening, thrusting two fingers into her cunt as his thumb continued to work at her clit.

Ice crunched in the back of Kate's mouth; the cold clearing the headiness only momentarily before she was consumed again by the fog.  Each shift of Barney's nimble hand coiled desire in her belly, taught as the bows she strung herself.  Closing her eyes, Kate knocked her head gently against the dark wood behind the booth.

Would Clint do this?  Would he finger fuck her in some Bed-Stuy dive bar at three thirty in the afternoon on a Tuesday?  Or is that what put the 'trick' in Trickshot, what differentiated Barney from his more celebrated brother.

Still, Kate can't help but imagine it,  Clint's hands that she knew so well, hands that taught her to shoot straighter, to hit harder, to bruise and to bleed if it was for what was right, slipping between her thighs, making her squirm, making her breath come heavy and labored in the dim yellow light.  "Barton," Kate gasped, her nails finding purchase in the skin of his free hand, tearing at him with each flick of his fingers.

“Which one?” Barney asked as Kate clenched her fingers around his hard enough to bruise, but she was too far gone to answer, her teeth cutting the skin of her lip, bringing the coppery taste of blood to the back of her throat, the tang of metal filling her mouth as her body quaked beside him.

“That’s sick,” she whispered, throwing back the rest of his whiskey, the sting of the liquor on her open wound doing nothing to ease the guilt that lay heavy in her heart.  “Do you always think about your brother when you fuck me?”

“Always?  Katie this is only round three.  Who said anything about always.”

Eyes shut again, Kate could feel Barney slide out of the booth, the weight of him leaving imprints in the vinyl, the ghost of a Barton sitting beside her.  She could hear the bathroom door swing open, and water swill through the thin walls.  Silently, Kate pulled a fifty out of her purse, left it on the table and fled back to Manhattan.

_Fucking Bartons._

\--

How many times makes it a habit, Kate wondered, back when it was a game still, with winners and losers, when she could still count the times it happened as if they were accidental, before she started coming around even when she knew Clint wouldn't be home, just stopping by, before she stopped making up reasons and excuses for 'why' and started her list of 'why nots.'

 _Because he's old and evil and bad for you._ It wasn't enough.

 _Because it would kill Clint if he found out._ That was a big if.

 _Because it doesn't make you happy._ A lie, and the worst part was Kate couldn't trace the point when that stopped being true, when she stopped hating herself, or worse when she stopped hating him.

All she knew was this. When she came home to Bed-Stuy to find Clint drunk (again) watching yet another TCM spaghetti western marathon, mumbling about how he was "getting better, Katie, you'll see," her heart broke.  And when she tucked him into bed only to find Barney's arms around her waist, his fingers twisted in her belt loops, whispering about how she was "helping Clint out, and he'd thank you if he knew how," it mended a little.  Each well-meant lie was stitch on the lesions in her heart, each bruising kiss a reminder that she was real, that she was not alone.

There were nights when she curled up in bed beside Clint, listening for the sound of his breath in the creaking apartment, nights when Barney crawled in beside her, his sleeping arm heavy as it wrapped around her waist, and she listened for his breath too.  In and out, in and out, Clint on her left, and Barney, his dark mirror, on her right. It comforted her, to hear them beside her, to know that they slept safe by her side.

Her Barton boys.


End file.
